SPLEEN
by petite etoile22
Summary: AU Series 6, Code 9 fic. Ros and Zaf are two lone ghosts with London as their playground.
1. Chapter 1

_**Auhor's note:** This is a Ros/Zaf challenge I set myself, which has the following stipulations:_

_- Rain/Water in some form  
- Ros/Zaf romance, pre-romance  
- The line: "I was raised by my grandparents when I was little. My grandfather had his rules and either we followed them, or we suffered the consequences."  
_

_**Disclaimer:** Spooks belongs to BBC/Kudos productions.  
**Warning:** Vague series 6 spoilers, Code 9 spoilers?  
**Other info:** The title is a reference to a Baudelaire poem I've been studying at uni._

* * *

She's standing on Westminster bridge when he finds her; the setting sun a halo behind her head, the burnt remnants of parliament a backdrop for their reunion. She's thinner than he remembers, her collarbone straining to break free from her skin.

"Rosalind."

"Zafar."

They have names now, these two lost ghosts with a desolate wasteland as their playground. They are no longer inventions, but people, with (dead) mothers and (dead) fathers. He notices that her hair is shorter, almost-shorn; and the picture doesn't quite fit into frame his mind has adorned.

"Harder to grab," Ros whispers in answer to his unvoiced question.

Zaf merely nods. He realises that London is a different place for both of them. He starts to walk.

She follows.

He almost suggests leaving London altogether, but he holds back. The rest of the world may be carrying on, but they are no longer part of 'the rest of the world'. They died long before London did, and no attack is ever going to rid themselves of that fact. They belong to this city and its dead.

Ghosts are not afraid of other ghosts.

* * *

From Westminster to Piccadilly Circus, he tells her the succinct tale of his arrival at this point of time. He tells the tale of the man who carved 'LV2' into the sole of his foot. A good man, who had a wife and a child. Zaf would've told the story even if the man had been all alone in the world.

You only die if you're forgotten.

He doesn't know what happened to the others, but guesses when Ros silently crosses the street at a computer shop. She always did like Malcolm. He wonders if she too is feeling this strange sensation; this thing that would've been compared to 'grief' before the attack.

They spend the night in what used to be a Travel Lodge. Their 'en-suite' has no running water, but there's blankets, and more importantly, tinned food. Ros keeps herself to herself, choosing to sleep in the furthest corner, blanket tucked up to her chin. Zaf wakes before her, using the precious few minutes to study the sleeping woman. Because that's all she is now, a woman.

He wonders when she lost her identity.

He wonders if she ever had one to begin with.

She sighs, her eyelids fluttering open to fix his brown orbs with his green ones. Zaf tries not to shrink under her gaze, but struggles since it is so very open and honest. Ros is a someone with nothing left to lose, and nothing left to give.

So she gives him the truth.

Neither of them know when it all went so horribly wrong, that spies had to tell each other the truth.

* * *

From Lambeth to Highgate, Ros asks about his family. He finds that when he talks, the pain is duller than it used to be. He is relatively pleased to find that he can still picture their faces, and hear their voices. He recounts tales of his university escapades. She doesn't laugh, nor does she smile, but Zaf seems to know that he has distracted her briefly from whatever dark place she was residing in. The cemetery no longer stands; it was razed to the ground in the aftermath of the attack. They find the equality and anonymity peaceful; Karl Marx indistinguishable from Norma Smith, housewife.

"My Grandfather was in there."

But the story she tells is of a time where she dyed her school swimming pool pink. She is trying to distract him from his dark place.

Or perhaps they are just trying to find some dark place in which they can both reside. A mutual understanding that the loneliness is worse than the pain.

* * *

There is a storm that night, and they take shelter in an abandoned shop after setting out pots and pans to catch the rain water. The moonlight is refracted through the droplets, casting a melancholy, yet comforting air around the room. Ros is carefully arranging the few belongings she has (as if their order will make sense of the chaos, the emotions she is fast losing control of), when her picture finally fits in his frame.

"The scars on your head are old."

"Yes," she answers, eyes never leaving her hands, hands never pausing in their movements. "Yes they are."

"How?"

A crash of thunder, and her milk pale skin is illuminated by the subsequent flash of lightning. Her green eyes are like emeralds hidden beneath a veil of saltwater tears. He knows they'll only be shed once he pretends to be asleep. He isn't sure if she has the strength to cry. He isn't sure if he has the strength to watch her.

"I was raised by my grandparents when I was little. My grandfather had his rules and we either followed them, or we suffered the consequences."

Zaf is silent in the face of this revelation. He understands that when there is no real hope of a future, it's easier to find comfort in the past. Yet Ros has no such comfort, and he suspects her dark place may be too obscured for him to find.

"So I was a very clumsy child growing up," she grimaces slightly in some afterthought of pain remembered. "There was one time where I - he had broken my arm and wouldn't let grandmama take me to the hospital. I remember throwing up from the pain."

"And then?"

"And then he slapped me for making a mess. So I didn't throw up the next time he broke it."

"How did he-? I mean..." Zaf trails off, eyes following the largest scar that adorns her crown.

"He was in a rage, and I ran. I just ran. A car stopped me in the end." Her mouth twitches in something, which only now could be classed as a smile. "My parents visited me in hospital. My father was so tall, almost as tall as grandfather, and he said they were taking me with them this time. That it would be more beneficial to my education. Do you know how far away Lima was from him?"

"I'm guessing it was pretty far."

Ghostly fingers trace patterns in the condensation on the cracked window-glass.

"6,314 miles."

Zaf understands now why she went along so willingly with her father's coup. He was her saviour; in situations like that, you just can't love without thought, it becomes a conscious choice. She made a decision to love Jocelyn Myers because unwittingly, he had made a decision to let her be a child again instead of some small being who cowered behind doors and pretended to be happy.

* * *

Dawn brings a light shower of rain with it. And Rosalind asleep next to him, her fingertips barely touching his. She looks frailer in the sunlight, yet more real, more believable, and he decides that this city (that used to be known as London) and its ghosts are doing both of them more harm than good. He siphons through some travel guides, their mouldy leaves as delicate as glass between his fingers. He is just closing the last book when Ros opens her eyes. She glances at the half-destroyed books, but remains lying down, the only hint of curiosity being a slight tilt of the head.

"It's only 223 miles to Filey." He smiles.

It's not Lima, but it's a start.


	2. Chapter 2

Now that they have their point 'B', they feel a strange sense of liberation; Time is walking alongside them for once. Zaf knows they have a long journey ahead of them (in more ways than one), and suspects that the stories Ros tells him will no longer be about pink swimming pools. They come across several cars, each one drained of its fuel. Ros knows that Zaf would like to move at a faster pace, but she doesn't mind the walking, it helps her order her thoughts.

Besides, those that run tend to get shot nowadays, and running has always made the situation worse, in her book.

She merely nods when Zaf suggests they go to the supermarket. It'll take at least 4 days to reach Filey, and without ID cards, they're limited in their actions once they leave London. They find a superstore just before they reach the Outskirts. The broken glass tells them there's been several visitors, and the stench tells them to avoid the meat aisles. Zaf's mouth twitches slightly when she picks the trolley with the dodgy wheel.

Somethings never change.

There is a brittle silence while they 'shop', punctuated only by heavy breathing as they try to avoid the stench of rotting flesh. There is a low and steady hum too, but they'd rather not discover its source. The trolley is loaded with tinned soup and dried noodles, biscuits and crisps; there is a muted argument over what chocolate to steal, and whether Zaf really thinks they can carry two crates of fizzy pop along with all the bottled water. The disagreement ends when Ros discovers that suitcases were on special offer at the time of the attack.

Small mercies.

* * *

Night falls rapidly, the distant glow of burning cars their only light. Zaf scopes out a small bungalow where they can spend the night; there's a mattress on the floor and everything. The previous occupants have burnt nearly all the furniture, but they find a few splintered remains which they can use. Their small fire casts a warm glow round the room. Ros will never admit it, but Zaf knows she is still afraid of the dark. He's also worked out that fires make her more talkative.

He'll never admit it, but this silent Ros scares him.

They crack open a couple of cans of lemonade, and put some noodles on to cook.

"What are you thinking about?" Zaf asks softly. It's a little rule of theirs never to ask how they're feeling.

"It's your birthday in two days."

He'd forgotten. "We should have a party."

"That'd be nice." There isn't a trace of sarcasm in her voice, and the idea of a birthday party becomes surreally tangible. "We'd need a cake though."

The salty noodles wreak havoc on their cracked lips, but neither of them care. They're just just grateful for the sensation of hot food sliding down their throats. It's Ros' turn to clear away, and he marvels slightly at how quickly and neatly she does it; eyes never leaving her hands, hands never pausing their movements.

* * *

They lie down on the damp mattress, Zaf's hand hovering just above hers.

"_Speak when spoken to. _That was his first rule; I never really understood it."

"Maybe you weren't meant to."

"Or maybe I was just too stupid."

Several minutes pass before she speaks again.

"As soon as I'd open my mouth, he'd just clip me round the ear. Then he'd hit me if I didn't answer him fast enough, or in the wrong way. I suspect my grandmama suffered the same consequences, though she had the privacy of a closed door. Every misdemeanour had a consequence in his household."

"You don't have to carry on if you don't want to."

"I have to, Zaf. Because he's gone, and sometimes I find myself wondering if it really happened, if he was really that bad...but I know he was," she whispers in a small voice. "If I tell you, then it's real, and maybe I won't feel like I'm going mad."

Zaf squeezes her near skeletal hand in a gesture of reassurance. If they can survive the destruction of London, they can survive anything.

Ghosts are not afraid of other ghosts.

* * *

Ros plays with the sleeve of his shirt. " He had this belt; dark brown leather with a brass buckle and tip. It had five holes, and I remember there being a scratch on the leather in between the third and fourth ones...I think I was five the first time he used it on me. The first one caught me on the back of my legs; I just dropped to the floor. The second one caught me on the face and split my lip. That side of my head felt like it was on fire..."

A vague hint of shame flickers across her gaunt and tired face.

"I cried."

"That's nothing to be ashamed of. You were five years old!" Zaf exclaims, unable to comprehend how someone could do that to a child.

If Ros hears him, she doesn't seem to agree with his statement. She's a Myers; Myers aren't supposed to cry, everyone knows that. She couldn't even cry when she saw the annihilated remains of the Grid.

"After that, I tried to stop talking at mealtimes. The risk of speaking out of turn, even by accident, was too great."

Zaf remembers his little sister being that age, and making them all laugh with her nonsensical chatter at the dinner table. He imagines the oppressive silence at Ros's table. That thought, coupled with the memory of his sister, makes him physically hurt.

He waits until she's asleep before finally extinguishing the dying embers. He's found his way into Ros' dark place, and it's suffocating.

It won't be brighter tomorrow; it will be murky at best.

Zaf thinks they could crawl their way out of 'murky'.

After all, they outlived the Service.


End file.
